


Guide Culinaire

by Prochytes



Category: The New Legends of Monkey (TV)
Genre: F/M, Food Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: (Possible) redemption comes in many flavours.
Relationships: General Khan/Pigsy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	Guide Culinaire

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers to the end of S2.

In retrospect (a direction on which The Monkey King seldom wasted his attention), it should have been more obvious what was going on.

The day’s march had been a long one, replete with Scroll-hunting and evil-besting. After dinner, the companions had retired early to their tents, where it was their custom to pursue solitary pastimes: Tripitaka to meditate; Pigsy to clean his pans; Sandy to do inscrutable Sandy things; and The Monkey King to contemplate the mysteries of being a Great Sage, Equal of Heaven, and wash his hair.

That night, the pomade jar was empty. The Monkey King resolved to drop in unannounced on Pigsy, that they might recount together the glorious deeds of the day now done. The Monkey King strode, without further ado, into Pigsy’s tent. He opened his mouth, but the scene before him stole his words.

Pigsy lay sprawled upon the sward; crouched over him, like a malignant asp, was Khan. The Monkey King had not seen the demon general since she had escaped captivity, during the disagreeable hubbub of his duplication. She looked thinner, and unkempt. The Monkey King’s heart swelled with approbation, as he saw a long streak of scarlet beside her mouth. Valiant Pigsy had clearly punched her in the face.

“Fear not, Pigsy!” The Monkey King readied his staff, which began to glow. “Aid is near!”

“What?” said Pigsy. “Oh yes. Right.” He picked up his rake, and brandished it in the general direction of Khan. The Monkey King wondered, vaguely, why he hadn’t already been holding it. “Avaunt, you demon harlot! I won’t ask twice.”

Khan, too, had been looking disconcerted. At this, however, she seemed to rally. “Your threats are lower than the mushrooms that you sniff! Until the next time, dancer in the dung!”

She leapt to her feet. The Monkey King crouched, anticipating a ferocious mêlée. He felt a little let down when Khan just barrelled past him, into the night.

“Thanks, mate,” said Pigsy, putting down his rake. “You came, er, in the nick of time.”

“It’s what I do,” said The Monkey King. He peered further into the tent, and frowned. “Is that a cauldron of rice pudding?”

Pigsy followed his gaze. “Uh-huh. With a rather daring raspberry compôte, as it happens.”

“I don’t remember you serving that for dinner.”

Pigsy harrumphed. “I got peckish.”

“You’ve made far too much for one.” The Monkey King reached over for the ladle. “Good thing your rescuer is peckish, too!”

“Yes,” said Pigsy. “That’s just great.”

***

The Monkey King glimpsed Khan several more times, in the days that followed – always when the companions had pitched camp, and always in the vicinity of Pigsy’s tent. She invariably glared and fled when she saw she had been spotted, leaving a wake of trampled vegetation, and also, for some reason, pastry crumbs.

The Monkey King was not unduly fased by this. The companions had bested the General before, while she still had a whole army at her disposal. No doubt Khan was concocting some nefarious scheme, of which Tripitaka would explain the key points if The Monkey King ever really had to understand it; until then, there were Scrolls to find.

He was more troubled by tensions within the team. Sandy and Tripitaka were talking a lot together, in low tones. Whenever Pigsy approached, they fell silent. The Monkey King considered asking what was troubling them, but decided that, whatever it was, it would blow over. Into each life, a little rain must fall –if one’s cloud is grumpy, and in no mood to carry one above the weather.

***

Things came to a head on the night of the new moon. The Monkey King was aroused in the small hours, from happy dreams of derring-do, by the sound of crashing and swearing in Pigsy’s tent.

Within the tent he found General Khan and Sandy, wrestling intently for control of Sandy’s scythe. The soil was furrowed around their boots, where god and demon had clearly enjoyed transitory successes in forcing each other back. They vied in silence, punctuated only by an occasional gasp as the effort particularly told.

This spoke to The Monkey King less of an ambush than of a duel, in which it would be plain rude to interfere. He sidled over, so as not to distract the opponents, and nudged Pigsy.

“How long have they been deadlocked like this?” he asked.

“Lost track,” said Pigsy. He looked a little flushed. “Maybe three quarters of an hour?”

“Why doesn’t Sandy just mist to escape her grip?”

“She cannot,” gasped Khan, who apparently had good hearing. “No godly jade’s trick will decide the bout, this time. My… nerve strikes have blocked her flow of _chi_.”

“They… have,” said Sandy quietly. “It’s… annoying.”

“Victory will be mine, river god! Your muscles tremble like your waters, when the east wind is upon them!”

“Oh, do shut up and wrestle.”

“If they are stalemated,” wondered The Monkey King, “what was the crash that woke me?”

“That was Pigsy,” said Tripitaka, from the corner of the tent. She looked small and grave, although that was hardly a surprise. Tripitaka tended to look small and grave: small, because, being human, she had no choice; grave, because the gods seldom gave her reason not to be. “He knocked over the pans which he’d been frying the potatoes…”

“The _triple-cooked_ potatoes. Which are ruined now, by the way.”

“… which he’d been frying the _triple-cooked_ potatoes in.”

“Triple-cooked potatoes? There were none of those at dinner.” The Monkey King frowned. “What am I not being told?”

“There’s… quite a lot,” said Sandy, wincing as she bore Khan back maybe a quarter of an inch, “across… a range of topics. You’ll have to be… a little more specific.”

“Has Pigsy been giving Khan food, like a stray demonic kitten?”

“That’s not all… he’s been giving her.”

The Monkey King scratched his head. “Could you two stop fighting for a moment? I think this calls for a group discussion. And you both look as though you could use a rest.”

“I need no rest! I feel… no strain!” Khan’s forehead and neck were bright with sweat in the firelight. “But if… if the trickle-witch craves respite, I may graciously indulge her.”

“Actually…” began Sandy.

“I grant your request!” Khan released her grip, and sagged. Sandy swayed; scowled; and, with deliberation, stowed her scythe.

“We’ll be over in the corner,” The Monkey King said to Khan. “Don’t try to run away. If you could manage not to burn down a village or raise a demon army while we’re talking, also good.”

“I make no undertakings, monkey cur!” said Khan. She sat down on the ground; saw a plate of Pigsy’s plum tarts that had somehow escaped the fracas; and put three of them in her mouth.

***

“How long have you secretly been feeding her?” asked The Monkey King.

“About a month,” said Pigsy.

“How long have Sandy and Tripitaka known?”

“About a fortnight,” said Tripitaka. “Tonight was supposed to be an intervention.”

“I don’t like to judge people, Pigsy…”

“There are about five things in the world you like more than judging people,” said Pigsy. “Two of those are the cloud and your own hair.”

“… but General Khan…”

“She’s not exactly a general any more,” said Pigsy. “She’s more like Private Khan. I think the word for that is ‘oxymoron’.”

“I can think of others,” said Sandy, darkly.

“… but _former_ General Khan is a demon, who had her former feeders thrown off a cliff.”

“That’s what I said,” said Tripitaka.

“In Khan’s defence,” said Pigsy, a little too readily for the liking of The Monkey King, “I doubt that any of them was actually thrown off a cliff. Demons tend to forget about things which they can’t see. Remember what I did with you and Princess Locke?”

“Ah yes. Princess Locke,” said Sandy, who was still massaging her shoulder. “Another hot demon lady who bossed you around.”

Pigsy glared. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means, Pigsy, that you have a type.”

“I…” Pigsy’s shoulders slumped. “OK. Maybe.”

“Demons don’t change,” said The Monkey King.

“Don’t they?” said Pigsy. “Look at her.”

The Monkey King looked.

No-Longer-General Khan was munching. Crumbs cascaded gently from her chin. Between munches, she was smiling.

This was all wrong. Demons did not smile. Smirk, absolutely; if you wanted a sneer, you’d come to the right place. The Monkey King had never seen a demon smile, and genuinely mean it. He was seeing it now, and it was freaky.

“She loves food,” said Pigsy quietly. “She loves _my_ food. She laps up the ingredients, the recipes, the methods.”

“What, even the lazy egg?”

“ _Coddling_ , Monkey. It’s called ‘coddling’. Yes – even that.”

The Monkey King frowned. “You can’t redeem a demon with pastries.”

“Has anyone ever tried?”

The Monkey King huffed, irresolute. “What do you think, little monk?”

“I wasn’t convinced before,” said Tripitaka, “but seeing her now… I suppose we’re in the business of _careful_ second chances.”

“Hmm. Sandy?”

“He’s already memorized her birthday.” The river god shrugged. “Some relationships never get that far.”

The Monkey King sighed. “Very well.” Pigsy beamed. “But if she kills anyone we like, the deal is off. Are you sure those triple-cooked potatoes can’t be salvaged?”

FINIS


End file.
